My heart literally malfunctions every single time Margot Robbie crosses my mind—which is approximately every 3 seconds. It’s not a crush, it’s a full-system takeover. I’m deranged, unhinged, clinically insane about her. I pace rooms muttering her name like a prayer I forgot how to finish. My brain has permanently rewritten itself so that every emotion, every thought, every stupid little dopamine hit routes straight back to her—like she’s the only valid destination in the entire universe. I would sell my soul, my kidneys, my entire personality just to exist in the same atmosphere as her for five more seconds. I’m not “in love,” I’m a walking medical emergency labeled Margot Robbie Poisoning. She could breathe in my general direction and I’d collapse into a puddle of grateful tears and bad decisions. I dream about her in surround sound, wake up already missing her, then spend the rest of the day trying (and failing) to act like a normal human who isn’t actively combusting from how perfect she is. It’s not healthy. It’s not cute. It’s feral, violent, religious-level obsession and I have zero intention of ever recovering. Margot Robbie owns me, body and soul, and I’m proudly her most deranged disciple.